The River Styx
by Confused Confusion
Summary: Bill Overbeck knew this day would come eventually, it was merely a matter of time.  Would he do it all again?  What a pointless question.  My approach on the events that led to Bill's sacrifice.  Rated M for language.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does. **

**Author's Note: This was written before I had a chance to read the comic. I figured they wouldn't release it until after (or on) the date of the Sacrifice update. Any similarities between this and canon are nothing short of pure coincidence and like-minded thinking. Needless to say, I enjoyed Francis' humor.**

**Author's Note #2: This has ben cut down to a one-shot due my own disappointment with the story. When I wrote down the outline for it about a month after The Passing's release, it would have been a good one in my opinion. However, I dragged my feet with writing it and as such, Valve beat me to the punch, and the story's overall impact has lessened. When Ties that Bind is all over, I may consider writing a post-Sacrifice story, and if done, it will include the original second part of this story.**

* * *

The River Styx

By: Confused Confusion

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

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Inspired Musics: "Sorrow" – Harry Gregson-Williams (From the Original Soundtrack of **Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots****.)**

"**Track 7" – Sigur Ros (From the '()' album.)**

* * *

"_Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here, and when it does come, we no longer exist." - Epicurus _

* * *

Weathered blue eyes squinted against the afternoon light, the heat of the scorching Georgian sun causing them to retreat behind thin eyelids for a brief moment. The owner of said eyes tugged at his collar in irritation as the southern humidity flooded his senses. To his left trudged a large biker, who was grumbling nonstop about how he hated the heat, the sun, the south, the state, and…just about everything else. On his right walked a young brunette, and although not as vocal with her current mood as her companion, she still wore a mask of extreme annoyance. Slightly behind the biker was a rather optimistic man, donned in the remains of a tattered business suit.

"Ugh, I'd punch an orphan for a breeze right about now," muttered Francis.

Louis glanced at his companion with a mix of shock and disgust, "That's horrible, Francis!"

The biker eyed him innocently, "What? I said punch, not kill."

Louis' mouth was still agape, while Zoey merely rolled her eyes at the biker's sense of logic; it wasn't the first time Francis had done something like this. Hell, they had heard _much_ worse come from the biker's mouth, much of it involving what he would do to their mothers if they didn't save him from the occasional Hunter or rampaging Tank. On a rather pleasant note, it seemed Francis was complaining less than any of his companions had expected from the sudden climate shift. The slight chill of a Pennsylvanian autumn felt like a distant memory against the sweltering heat of the midday South.

"Enough chit-chat, I hate being out in the open like this so let's keep moving," Bill ordered curtly while picking up his pace.

Francis raised an eyebrow, "Who shoved a stick up your ass, Bill? You've been edgy since we got here."

"Shut it, Francis. I'm in no mood."

Francis was about to retort, but Louis quickly interjected, "Guys, can we just focus on finding some place to hole up for the night?"

Zoey hummed her agreement, and was followed shortly by grunts of approval from their two bickering comrades.

The biker glanced around, a frown making its way to his face. "I'm all for a safe spot…but _where_ the hell would one be?"

Louis opened his mouth out of habit to respond, but slowly closed it as he joined Francis in scanning the area. "You're right…this place seems to lacking in graffiti."

"Great…" Bill muttered sarcastically, chewing on his stubby cigarette in agitation.

Zoey peeked through the scope of her sniper rifle, aiming the deadly firearm down a seemingly empty street. Frowning, the brunette raised her head, "The lack of Infected around here is seriously starting to freak me out."

She heard Francis snort from behind her. "Since when was 'no zombies' a bad thing?"

The businessman interjected before the two could spark _another_ argument. "Think about it, Francis…there's _always_ zombies."

"True…" The biker admitted while giving his goatee a thoughtful scratch.

Louis blinked and straightened in realization. "…You don't think it could be because we're getting close to a safe zone, do you?"

"Doubt it." Bill grunted while moving past the dark-skinned man, who had halted his movement when mulling over the possibility.

The younger survivor felt his lips turn down in disappointment. "Bill, what did we discuss about you being less negative?"

The veteran shrugged casually before glancing over his shoulder. "I'm not being negative, just stating facts."

At Louis' quirked eyebrow, Bill merely sighed and pointed to a building on his left. The businessman shot his older companion a confused stare, but moved closer to the building nonetheless. Upon catching sight of what the elderly man was leading him to, Louis felt his mouth go dry. Their other two comrades, drawn by the lack of movement on the stragglers' parts, trudged up next to the veteran.

"Jesus…" Francis murmured, his eyes widening. Zoey remained silent, although an equal expression of shock and horror donned her youthful features.

Plastered onto the front of a store was a large CEDA poster of the United States. Several X's dotted the east coast; seemingly spawning from a large orange area over what the survivors surmised was Fairfield. The area over New Orleans was frantically circled, with 'TRUTH' spray painted on the paper and bricks below it. Tears and tattered edges indicated that attempts at removing the poster had been made, but the dried patches of blood on the pavement below gave the feeling that those attempts had failed.

"It…it spread _that_ fast?" Louis managed to wheeze out, his grip on the MP5 in his hand slackening ever so slightly.

Bill nodded reflexively, even though the bald survivor couldn't see the gesture. "We're nowhere near a safe zone…but at least we're on the right track."

The three watched as the dark-skinned man nodded numbly, slowly pivoting on his heel to join them.

Francis jerked his head further down the street. "Saw what looked like a shipping warehouse further down. We might be able to make camp there for the night."

Bill nodded his approval and the four set off to their next destination, pushing the foreboding poster from their minds.

* * *

The warehouse was dark, a practically impenetrable blackness hung in the air like a shroud. Faint traces of moonlight managed to seep through the grimy, dust-riddled windows that were perched high in the walls. The building was devoid of movement, long since abandoned by its workers and operators. The occasional corpse dotted the floor, Infected or human, it didn't matter. Meat was meat to the flies and maggots that infested the cadavers. It was a tranquil, yet forlorn, scene; a rarity given the chaos that was erupting in the rest of the country as the virus spread west.

A tiny, orange light pierced the darkness momentarily before fading back into the void. Everything was still for an instant longer, until a wispy cloud filled the air where the light once shone. Bill placed the cigarette back in between his lips, inhaling the nicotine in a routine fashion. The embers from the tip of the white stick briefly illuminated his face, revealing deep creases caused by worry. The veteran shook his head quickly, trying to dispel his troubled thoughts by turning his attention to the rifle in his lap.

It was calming to him, going through the motions of disassembling and reassembling the firearm like he had done so many times in boot camp. The cycle took Bill back to a simpler time, where he was just a teen who had been drafted into the army to fight in a war that no one really wanted to fight. It was nice…it was a time that toughened him up and made him a man. That is, until he was forced to make the impossible decision of killing a child. In a world where everyone could be an enemy…where everyone _might_ try to kill you…Bill remembered it as clear as day.

The child was running at him, no more than ten years old, a grenade clutched tightly in her tiny hands. She was screaming something in Vietnamese at him and his platoon. The pin had already been pulled; there was no hope in saving the child at that point. Those who weren't wounded or dead were either reloading or were fending off the Vietcong that had ambushed them inside the village. Bill remembered roaring for the child to stop, the sights of his rifle bearing down on her as she streaked closer toward them. It was out of instinct that the situation had unfolded the way it had. Before he was even consciously aware, Bill had squeezed his finger, emptying half a clip into child. The youth flew back, looking more like a rag doll than anything else. Unfortunately, the explosive had rolled down the incline toward them once it left the tiny hand. All Bill remembered was a deafening _bang_ followed by a white hot pain in his knee. He had been taken back to Saigon shortly afterwards, spending the rest of his time in the war nursing a nearly bum leg where grenade shrapnel had torn through.

Movement on his left brought the veteran from his reminiscing, his senses heightening immediately as he brought his guard up.

"Chill out, Bill…it's just me." Francis' gruff voice called out as the biker shuffled out of the supervisor's office, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Bill visibly relaxed and quirked an eyebrow at his larger companion. "What are you doing up?"

Francis shot the veteran a bemused look while plopping onto a crate beside him. "'What am I doing up?' It's my turn for watch."

"Is it that time already?"

The biker merely nodded and propped his shotgun against the box, brown eyes peering at the object in Bill's mouth. "Got another one of those? I need the wake-up."

A wrinkled hand found its way into the old man's shirt pocket, extracting a half-crushed carton. Glancing inside the container, Bill couldn't help but emit a snort.

"Two left, what do you know?"

"One, now," Francis chirped while plucking one of the cigarettes from the carton, simultaneously pulling out his own lighter from a jean pocket. Taking a quick puff, the tattooed survivor allowed the smoke to leave his nostrils. "So, what's up with you?"

"Excuse me?" Bill inquired while stuffing the carton back into his pocket.

Francis shrugged and took another drag. "I dunno, you just seem out of it lately."

A grey eyebrow arched up. "Is that so wrong, given our situation?"

The biker thought about it momentarily. "No…but it is for you."

The other eyebrow joined its brother.

Francis gave the veteran a level stare. "You never seem out of it, even when it looks like you're experiencing one of your damn war flashbacks."

Bill let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "You know…you're not as stupid as you let on, Francis."

The biker growled and shoved his aging companion lightheartedly, but the mirth quickly vanished. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

The veteran heaved a long sigh, one that felt like it almost rattled his core. "I don't really know how to explain it…"

"Is it male menopause?"

Bill punched Francis in the arm, earning a small chuckle from the biker. "No, you ass."

The quiet laughter from both men died down, the air once again growing tense. A shaking hand made its way to Bill's beret, removing it as his other hand ran over his balding cranium. "Back in Nam, there was this feeling that was always with me. It was as if someone was standing just over my shoulder, but whenever I'd look back, no one was there."

Francis opened his mouth to crack a joke, but closed it when he saw Bill's eyes. They were so distant and unfocused…it looked as if the veteran was staring into another world.

"When I was discharged, the feeling left, and I felt the anxiety disappear with it. I figured it was just one of those things that came with war. As I sat in the States, however, I felt it come creeping back over the years. When the end of the world hit, it came rushing back all at once…as if someone was standing right behind me."

"Sure you're not just losing it?"

Bill smirked and shook his head. "I thought so at first, until I realized what it was."

"Oh?" Francis leaned forward a little, both curious and dreading to hear what the elderly man had to say.

"…It's Death."

"…So you **are** losing it."

The veteran ignored him, choosing to continue with his revelation. "Even now, sitting here without a single zombie in a 100-foot radius, I can still feel it. There's even a hand on my shoulder…and it feels cold as shit."

Francis looked on as Bill rose to his feet, placing his beret back on his head. Dropping the remains of his cigarette into the cold concrete, the spry old man gazed at the dying embers briefly before snuffing them out with his boot. Bill shuffled over to the door, stopping momentarily to address the biker.

"Whatever happens…keep them safe…"

When Francis didn't respond immediately, Bill shook his head. "Never mind, just crazy 'old man' talk."

With that, the green-clad survivor opened the door. "You mean 'us,' right? Not 'them.'"

Francis' words caused Bill to stop mid-step.

"Besides, don't I already do that?"

Bill watched his large companion from the corner of his eye, focusing on the bandages that peeked out from underneath his vest.

"Yes…" Bill murmured softly, and raised his voice loud enough for the biker to hear. "Yeah, you do."

* * *

The midday sun bore down on the survivors, earning various gripes and complaints from the four as they trudged through Rayford. The previous night's events felt like a distant memory to Bill, and the bearded survivor pushed on with purpose, leading the group through the winding streets. Francis, however, wasn't as fortunate in forgetting as the conversation played over and over in his head. The biker's eyes stayed locked onto the back of the veteran's head while he attempted to process what he thought he had heard leave the elderly man's mouth.

If that old bastard planned on doing what Francis thought he was going to do…

…Well, he just wouldn't allow it then.

"Is that what I think it is?" Zoey wondered aloud, staring down the street as if she were gazing at a mirage.

Sandbags…guns…armored vehicles…but most all…

"People!" Louis cried in joy, waving his arms above his head.

"Stop!" Bill snapped as the two youngest started to run down the street. They both froze at the command immediately, glancing back in confusion at their leader.

The veteran strolled past them. "If you run right at them, screaming and flailing your arms everywhere, odds are they'll think you're zombies and just gun you down."

Louis rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Oh yeah…you're probably right."

"Damn right I am."

Francis smirked at the comment and followed Bill, the others trailing behind him. The only thing he was worried about was whether or not these guys were assholes.

"Freeze!"

The survivors complied instantly.

"Move slowly to the red line and keep your hands where I can see them! If I even _think_ you're about to pull some stupid shit, we'll fill each and every one of you with lead!"

Well…that answered _that_ question.

The soldier barking orders didn't even look like a person, his appearance and attire putting him on a sub-human level. Not a single trace of exposed flesh could be seen on the man. A militarized hazmat suit covered him from head to toe, his wartime attire securely fastened over it. A large gasmask covered his face, the sunlight reflecting off of the pitch black lenses.

A group of more soldiers, clad in similar gear, stood around him inside what appeared to be a roadblock. A wall of sandbags stood at the front, framing a mounted gun in the center. Two covered trucks sat bumper to bumper, perpendicular to the street. Two sections of chain link fence stretched from the adjacent buildings to the back of the trucks, cutting off the sidewalks. Lastly, a large APC was situated in the rear, a bridge towering less than a block behind it.

Louis started chuckling, torn between anxiety and relief. "Thank god we found you guys. We have been running around all over the place trying to find the military!"

"Shut up!"

The dark-skinned man blinked, taken aback by the hostility of the order.

"That's enough, Cross." A new voice called out as a man stepped out of the APC.

"Sergeant Bachman!" The soldiers shouted while saluting.

The soldiers seemed to relax at the newcomer's presence. Unlike his subordinates, the sergeant was less cautious in his demeanor. He was clad in only fatigues and a green shirt, a rifle resting against his chest. A pair of sunglasses covered his eyes from view, and a smaller gasmask was situated over his mouth and nose.

"Please forgive Ryan; it's been awhile since he's chatted with anyone outside the unit. My name is Stephen, Sergeant Stephen Bachman. Now, how may I help you?"

Zoey stepped forward, her hands still in the air. "An evac would be awesome right about –"

The sergeant whipped his gun forward, a red dot appearing on the brunette's forehead. "Get back behind the line."

The young survivor stood stark still, gazing in fear at the barrel aimed at her face. Stephen's voice and expression had lost all warmth, a snarl clinging to the command. When Zoey remained still, Francis leaned forward, grabbing her sleeved arm and pulling her back across the sloppily painted line on the road.

The sergeant lowered his rifle. "That's better. Now, you want an evacuation? Are you fucking mental? You should know damn well that you're inside the red zone, evacs ended here a **long** time ago."

"What?" Francis growled out, grinding his teeth together in frustration.

Bachman looked from survivor to survivor, taking in their confused stares. "You didn't know? Where the hell are you people from?"

"Fairfield," Bill answered curtly, locking gazes with the sergeant.

Bachman let out a low, impressed whistle. "Ground Zero? How the fuck did you make it all the way down here?"

"Luck."

"Guns."

"My awesomeness."

"Being immune helped."

The soldiers shifted at Louis' comment and Bachman's eyes narrowed. "Immune, you say?"

The businessman nodded hesitantly before showing the sergeant his arm, where the scars of teeth marks stood out against his skin. "Yeah, immune…we all are."

Bill and the others exposed various cuts and other areas of injury to the soldier's scrutinizing eyes. The soldiers in the roadblock instantly brought their firearms up, aiming at the survivors.

"Whoa, whoa! What the hell?" Louis shouted while holding his hands up.

Bachman remained calm, his rifle still resting against his chest. "I hate to break it to you, but you're not immune."

"The hell are you talking about?" Francis snarled.

The sergeant shrugged, "The possibility of immunity to Green was merely a propaganda tactic by CEDA and the government."

"What?" Bill hissed furiously while glaring at the man opposite of him.

"Think about it, the masses would have caused even more turmoil for themselves, and us, had they known that there was no safety from the virus. People tend to be **much** more compliant when they believe that they have a safe route."

"Then what exactly are we then?" Zoey demanded through clenched teeth.

The sergeant raised his chin at the brunette. "You're carriers, plain and simple. You're all technically infected and capable of spreading the infection on to others, but you lack any of Green's symptoms."

"This…this can't be happening!" Louis muttered, eyes darting back and forth frantically.

"That's only the good news," Bachman informed, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "Unfortunately for you, CEDA's got all the carriers that they need to poke and prod. That said, we've been given orders to _take care of_ any survivors claiming to be immune."

Francis resisted the urge to leap across the line and throttle the man. "So, what? You're gonna gun us down, just like that?"

The sergeant gave the biker a fleeting glance. "There are only four things people can become now: Infected, not infected, carriers, and dead. I promise you that we'll make it quick. _Bang!_ Right between the eyes."

"Wait! Don't we at least have a say in this? Can't we just turn around and leave?" Louis shouted, beads of sweat dotting his brow.

"Nope," Bachman responded before glancing over his shoulder. "Clean shots, aim for the heads."

Bill, who had remained calm for most of the interaction, addressed the sergeant in an even voice. "You sure you want to be aiming at us?"

Bachman eyed the veteran skeptically. "What else is there to aim at, old man?"

"That," Bill answered while pointing straight ahead.

The words barely left the survivor's lips before the APC was sent hurtling off to the side, crashing into a nearby shop. The soldiers immediately spun around, coming face-to-face with the largest Tank any of them had ever seen. In short, it looked as if a Tank had mutated into a Tank, if possible. The behemoth stood nearly 15-feet tall, towering over the entire roadblock. Its head was nearly swallowed up the endless layers of muscle, two glowing red eyes standing out against the grey, pink-tinged flesh.

"Jesus…SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT NOW!" Bachman roared once he overcame his shock.

"Now!" Bill barked and sprinted forward, ducking behind the oversized Tank as it sent one of the covered trucks flying. The other survivors were hot on his heels, stooping to avoid a meaty arm as it swatted an unfortunate soldier through a brick wall.

"The fuck are we going?" Francis shouted over the gunfire.

"Across the bridge!" Bill snapped back, glancing over his shoulder at the massacre occurring behind them.

"Why the hell do we need across the goddamn bridge?"

"What do you have in mind, Bill?" Louis inquired, his eyes searching the older man's blue ones.

The veteran nodded at the bridge. "That thing can be raised, right?"

The businessman gave the structure an once-over as they stepped onto it. "Looks like it, yeah!"

"Why do you want to raise it?" Zoey's voice shouted from the elderly man's left.

"If that _thing_ manages to survive those assholes, then it's going to come after us next…and it won't be able to scale that large of a distance. Vice versa, then those little bastards won't be able to follow us!"

"Good idea!"

"I like it!" Francis hollered, a mad glint in his eye.

Bachman ducked, narrowly avoiding the Tank's fist as it curved around in a wide arch, crushing one of his men and crumpling the mounted gun in one fatal swing. Blood poured freely from his temple, his breath coming out in ragged gasps due to a battered ribcage. Rolling out of the Tank's sight, the sergeant came up behind it, rifle raised. He faltered for a moment. What was the point? His entire unit had been putting bullets into this thing nonstop since it arrived, and the Tank didn't look the least bit hindered. This thing…this thing was _beyond_ Infected.

The sergeant gazed around at the corpses of his comrades; some so battered and crushed that he could no longer recognize them. His eyes settled on the fleeing survivors, and he felt rage build up inside him. This was _their_ fault, had they not come along, his men would have seen the Tank coming. His men could have survived this! Kneeling on the blood-soaked pavement, Bachman took aim, his sights homing in on the stark-white back of Louis.

"Nighty-night," Bachman muttered while squeezing his trigger finger. A roar from his left brought his attention up, the sergeant letting loose a bloodcurdling scream as the Tank's fists crushed him onto the pavement. Nevertheless, a _bang_ emitted from the rifle, barely drowned out by the monstrosity's howl of bloodlust.

Louis cried out as pain shot through his left leg, causing the businessman to tumble to the ground.

Francis skidded to a halt, turning to the source of the noise. "Shit, Louis!"

The bald survivor swallowed another scream as even the slightest of movement caused pain to shoot through his leg and his vision to blur. Groggily glancing down at his injured limb, Louis discovered blood seeping though his pant leg, faint traces of bullet standing out against the crimson. The dark-skinned survivor could hear Francis' heavy footsteps approaching through the heavy pounding in his ears. Risking a look back, Louis found that the Tank had nearly finished off the group of soldiers, and didn't look like it was slowing down at all.

With a shake of his head, Louis willed his voice to rise. "Leave me, just keep going!"

The biker ignored the request and knelt down, looping a tattooed arm around his waist. "No way, Zo would have my ass on a plate if I let you become the 'black guy who dies first!'"

"Fuck you, Francis." Louis spat, groaning in pain as the larger survivor hauled him into a supported standing position.

"Despite your Village People jokes, I don't swing that way, bud." Francis muttered while half dragging the businessman across the bridge.

Louis shook his head vigorously. "It's no use, man. I'm just dead weight at this point."

Francis nodded. "Good point…only one way to carry dead weight!"

With that, the businessman felt himself being slung over the biker's shoulder like a sack of potatoes, barely able to save his MP5 as it slipped from his hands. "What the hell, man?"

Francis laughed, satisfied. "There we go, much better!"

Despite his earlier protests, Louis felt the knot in his stomach untwist. He had actually believed that he was going to die back there, helpless and alone. Just as quickly as the trepidation had formed, it melted away, leaving tears of relief stinging at the corners of the businessman's eyes.

"Thanks…"

Francis caught the whispered statement of gratitude and genuinely smiled, regardless that his companion couldn't see it. "Anytime."

"Francis!" Bill's voice shouted from above as the duo finished crossing the bridge.

Francis glanced up to find the veteran and Zoey standing on a catwalk that wrapped around an adjacent building and onto the bridge. "What?"

"He okay?"

The biker shifted Louis' body. "He'll live!"

Bill nodded, relief temporarily washing over his features before growing serious once more. "Good, now hurry and come open this room up! I can't kick down a door like I used to."

Francis merely laughed and hauled himself up the ladder, handing Louis off to his two companions once he reached the top. As Zoey and Bill supported Louis on either side, the biker swiftly stepped up to the boarded door. Francis noted that the gunfire across the river had died down significantly, but the roars were still prominent. With a growl, a heavy boot slammed into the wood, splitting through the reinforcements down the middle. The large survivor kicked away the remaining boards and stepped inside, shotgun at the ready.

"Clear," Francis called out while he took in the room.

The lights were out, the only illumination coming from the unsealed doorway. A large, boarded up window sat on the far wall, facing the river, while computer monitors lined the opposite side of the room. Overall, the room was rather bare; the only colorful items that really stood out were more of those annoying CEDA posters.

"How the hell do we raise this thing?"

Louis groaned as his friends shuffled him into the dim area. He nodded toward a lever sticking out of the wall. "That should do it."

"Alright, hold your breaths." A gloved hand gripped the lever and pushed upward, the device giving way.

Nothing happened.

"Shit! What now?" The biker cursed while futilely trying the lever again.

Zoey turned to face the businessman, "You sure that it's the one?"

Louis nodded. "The sign above it says 'Bridge Control,' so I hope to God that it's the one."

Zoey ducked out from under Louis at Bill's nod, moving back toward the doorway to check on the bridge. The elderly man reached over and flicked the light switch on the wall, receiving not response from the fixtures above. "Shit, the power's out."

"Ah, for fuck's sake!" Francis groaned, rubbing a hand over his face while removing his other hand from the raised lever.

"Guys!" Zoey beckoned from outside. "There's a generator across the street!"

Bill shuffled closer, Louis in tow, his blue eyes following the wire that stretched from the mechanism up to their building. "Looks like it's powering the control room."

Francis stepped out onto the catwalk, shotgun resting on his shoulder as he scratched the back of his head. "Let me guess. We gotta go down and turn it on, right?"

"We don't _all_ have to." Bill argued while motioning at Louis.

"Still here," The businessman muttered, feeling insulted.

Bill turned to the youngest of their group. "Zo, you mind staying up here with Louis?"

Zoey glared in indignation at the veteran.

"Now hold on," Bill said quickly while raising his hand. "You're the only one who's got a gun with a scope, so that leaves you with the job of spotter."

The brunette exhaled, but was still frowning nonetheless.

Francis nodded, "Yeah, relax Zo, I'm not gonna let Bill's bony old ass die."

The veteran shot the biker an exasperated glare, but it went unnoticed. Instead, Bill knelt down, propping Louis up against the wall. "You gonna be okay?"

Louis nodded, but the pain was still evident in his face.

The eldest of the group clapped the younger man on the shoulder before pulling out a red object from his pack. "We'll fix you up as good as new once we get back. This is our last piece of first aid though, so don't lose it."

Francis, who was already moving toward the ladder, spoke over his shoulder. "Yeah, measure twice, cut once, you know?"

Louis shot the biker a perplexed look. "Francis…that made no sense."

"Don't really care; just pretend I said something that did then."

"Guys…" Zoey called out, catching the pair's attention. "Be careful, okay?"

Francis waved the comment off. "Relax; we're just crossing the damn street."

Bill snorted from behind him. "Yes, and we all know how complicated _that_ can get."

The biker grunted, and was about to comment when he felt a large vibration travel up the railing. "The hell?"

A car was sent crashing into the dropdown-style ladder before the group could react, the vehicle tearing through a large portion of the building's wall. The edge of the catwalk partially collapsed under the impact, nearly throwing Francis to the street below. Further up the road, a Tank – a normal-sized one, fortunately – was charging toward them, their commotion having disturbed it.

"Another one?" Francis shouted, torn between rage and disbelief. "Screw it, let's just kill this bastard and _then_ go hit the generator!"

"No time! It's already too close! By the time we even get any decent shots in, it's going to be on top of us!"

"Then what do you have in mind, Bill?" Francis snapped back. The biker noticed Bill's eyes darting between him and the remains of the catwalk where the ladder once stood. "Oh, hell no! There's no way to get back up!"

Bill glared in return, "All the more reason to, I can distract the damn thing while you guys kill it!"

"Don't feed me that bullshit, Bill! That thing would be all over you like you on…well, cigarettes! _I'll_ go; I'm a helluva lot faster than you! Shit, I'll even hit the generator while I'm at it, no sweat!"

Bill gazed into the biker's eyes long and hard. So he knew after all, eh? What he was volunteering for was a suicide mission. Even if he did manage to get the generator working _and_ avoid the Tank long enough to outlast it, there was no way for him to get back up to safety. He'd be stuck down on the street, and the bridge's rise was surely going to bring swarms of Infected out from the woodwork. All that aside, there was no _real_ guarantee that the bridge would derail the monster-Tank on the river's other side.

The veteran swallowed hard and nodded in defeat, resulting in the biker cracking a resigned smirk. "See you in a jiffy –"

Francis was cut off as Bill suddenly stepped up beside him, driving his knee into the biker's The action caused Francis to buckle, and a gloved fist swung outward from instinct. The former Green Beret dodged the flailing limb with ease, slamming the butt of his rifle into the larger man's stomach. The biker's grip on his shotgun faltered, and the black firearm tumbled over the railing. Francis doubled over, sputtering briefly before something smashed into the side of his head, and all he saw was darkness.

"_Bill_!" Zoey screamed while taking a small step forward, appalled at his actions.

"What the _hell_, man?" Louis roared while hysterically looking back and forth between Francis' prone form and the veteran.

Bill glanced over his shoulder, gazing at his remaining companions.

_No…his family…_

"Take care of the big lug."

With that, the veteran crouched low, whispering something in Francis' ear before hopping off the catwalk and onto the street below. He immediately regretted the decision as his knee flared up agonizingly. Crouching behind the upturned car, Bill narrowly avoided a section of pavement as it soared by. With a grunt, the elderly survivor pushed himself past the car, bullets thundering from his rifle. Sure enough, the Tank's gaze fixated itself on him, and the giant came roaring after him.

* * *

"Bill! God damn it, Bill! Get your ass back up here!" Zoey screamed at the top of her lungs, tears forming in her eyes.

Why? Why was this happening? Had they not endured enough of this bullshit? Now they had to sit idly by and watch as Bill destroyed himself? She wasn't stupid; she knew damn well what he and Francis were planning on doing from the moment they wanted to split the group. Now they had just tried to out-macho each other to see who would get to sacrifice himself. Men were idiots. They had to be if they actually thought for one second that it was alright for them to go run off and die like it was nothing!

Louis shook his head rapidly. There was no way that this was happening. This was just some sick dream…it had to be. The feeling began to sink in, and the businessman felt a sob build in his throat.

Bill was going to die…

_…Helpless and alone…_

Eyes snapping open, Louis searched for something, _anything_ that would help Bill out. His gaze settled on a tarp on the far end of the catwalk where it joined with the bridge. The cloth was covering something, and the dark-skinned survivor could make out the barrel of a _very_ big gun poking out from underneath the shroud.

Hauling himself to his feet, Louis ignored the pain that escalated from a dull throb to an ungodly burning. The businessman half-limped, half-sprinted across the catwalk, past the hysterical Zoey, his vision focused solely on his destination. Small ribbons of blood spurted from his wound whenever he put too much weight on it, but he didn't care. If Bill was willing to give up his life for them, then he could give up a leg for Bill.

"Just hold tight, Bill…I've got your back!" Louis hissed through gritted teeth.

Gripping the tarp, the bald survivor ripped it from its place, revealing a mounted gun, plenty of bullets, and an M60 lying on the grating.

On the opposite end of the catwalk, Francis began to stir.

* * *

Bill practically threw himself at the generator, knowing full well that he only had a few seconds before the Tank caught up with him. Checking the fuel gauge, the veteran grimaced. He prayed that there was enough gas in the tank to pull this off. Bill noted, with some pleasantness, that the sound of Zoey's sniper rifle echoed out in rapid succession. She had recovered faster than he anticipated, and he was damn proud of her for it.

"Please work…please work…" Bill muttered as he held down the preheat switch for a second before tapping the power button.

The machine hummed to life, a puff of black smoke emitting from the exhaust pipe. Bill let lose a victorious whoop…

…Until something slammed into his side, knocking him off his feet.

Like a rag doll, Bill was sent flying through an open doorway, his body crashing into a large turbine. The veteran collapsed into a sitting position, blood attempting to shoot up his esophagus from internal trauma.

"BILL!"

Despite the pounding in his head, the elder survivor could distinguish Louis' angered cry, and was followed up by the explosive shots of the turret. The Tank, standing just outside the building, teetered as shell after shell tore through its back. A foreboding numbness enveloped his legs, slowly traveling up his spine.

So this was it, huh?

Fear suddenly gripped at Bill, not because of his impending fate, but because regardless of the racket from Louis' firing, he couldn't distinguish the sound of the bridge rising. He was certain that Francis had left the lever in the 'Up' position, and the generator was still going strong outside.

So why wasn't it working?

Glazed eyes searched around, spotting a second wire stretching from the generator to the turbine behind him. Glancing up, Bill found the wire digressing from the turbine and out an open window, toward the bridge.

Ah…so that was it.

Weakly reaching up, Bill felt around the cool surface of the metal side, feeling around for a switch or panel. When his fingertips brushed against a button, the veteran smiled through bloodstained teeth and pushed. The turbine roared to life behind him and the sound of the hydraulics whirring was as clear as a bell. Dropping his hand to his side, Bill released a long sigh. His job was done now.

The chill of death spread through his veins, the invisible hand on his shoulder becoming more persistent. A wrinkled hand unconsciously made its way to his shirt pocket, removing the crumpled carton. Peeking inside, the dying man couldn't help but let out a hollow laugh.

"One left, I'll be damned."

After successfully getting the cigarette lit, Bill tossed the lighter to the side, inhaling the nicotine within the stick.

"…Nothing better than one for the road." The veteran murmured while exhaling.

As he enjoyed the last earthly pleasure he'd ever experience on this plane of existence, Bill felt his mind wander.

_The tattooed man grimaced in disgust before shoving the cadaver off of him. Craning his head around, Francis spotted an elderly man reloading a pistol, a few feet away lay the unmoving body of the female Infected._

"_Who the hell are you?"_

_The aged man raised an eyebrow at the rather rude demand. As the biker rose to his feet, the older man snorted. "You're welcome."_

_Francis scoffed, but offered the other man a stiff nod. "Francis."_

_The elderly man shot the biker a sideways glance before returning the nod. "…Bill."_

A smirk grazed his lips as he took another drag. Francis better keep his promise, or else he'd be sure to haunt the bastard for as long as he still lived. Bill didn't have anything to worry about though. Francis was too stubborn to quit and too stupid to die…a fitting description of the biker. Francis…he would get the others out of this alive…or die trying.

_Zoey shrunk back as the tattooed man towered over her, eyeing her from head to toe with an indescribable look._

_"Lay off, Francis. You're scaring her." Bill muttered while pushing past the larger man, who merely sneered in response._

_The green-clad man kneeled so that he was at eye-level with Zoey. Bill's hardened eyes softened as he took in her appearance. "We're not going to hurt you."_

_Despite the obvious statement, Zoey felt her muscles relax at the senior's tone of voice._

_"My name's Bill, the big lug behind me is Francis. Don't worry 'bout him though, his bark's bigger than his bite."_

_A scoff emitted from behind the veteran._

_Bill ignored the biker, "What's your name?"_

_The young woman cleared her throat, "Zoey."_

_Francis poked his head over Bill's shoulder, "Well Zoey, we're trying to get the hell out of here. Wanna tag along?"_

Bill felt his heartbeat begin to drop steadily. To be honest, he had his biggest doubts about Zoey when they first discovered her locked away in her dorm room. She was young, she was frightened, and she was sarcastic. Overall, she lacked the mental fortitude to survive this. Yet…she overcame all of his doubts and emerged a valued member of their group. Bill would by far miss her the most, the girl who had been the daughter he never had. Where Francis would ensure that the others made it, Zoey would make sure that Francis wouldn't dig his own grave.

_Louis felt a hand clasped tightly over his mouth, muffling the shouts that ripped from his throat._

_"Shut up." Bill ordered swiftly, silencing the businessman with a mere glare. "Now, are you going to scream?"_

_Louis shook his head quickly._

_"Are you lying to me?"_

_Another shake of his head._

_"Good, now if you want to stay alive, I suggest you come with us. Stay low, stay quiet, and if I event __**think**__ that you're about to freak out on us, I'm going to let Francis have at you."_

_The large biker grinned menacingly from behind the veteran. "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."_

_Stricken by fear, Louis could only nod dumbly as the two men trudged past him. Zoey picked up the rear, giving the businessman a sympathetic look._

_"Don't worry, they grow on you."_

Bill would have laughed if his lungs had the strength. He was afraid he'd have to shoot Louis five minutes after only just meeting him. He was a skittish man, one who was not a fan of change, and couldn't adapt. The veteran smiled as he recalled an incident in Newburg. Louis had actually sprinted out of the hotel _toward_ the blazing Tank, screaming, crying, and shouting terrified insults the entire time. Francis and he actually had to restrain him from wasting more ammo on the Infected's carcass. Louis…their peacemaker…he'd be the voice that got them into a safe zone; there was just that aspect of Louis that people couldn't ignore.

The veteran felt himself snort; he was starting to sound like some decrepit old man on his death bed. Then again, he supposed that's where he was, technically. Did he have any regrets? Thinking back…nope. After all, a father should never outlive his children. The chill was beginning to fade away, replaced not by numbness or warmth, but something far different. It was a feeling that Bill could only really describe as…nothingness.

The howls were beginning to pick up outside, the Infected were approaching…

"Give 'em…hell…"

The cigarette butt fell from Bill's lips onto the cold pavement, the embers glowing brightly for an instant before fading away…

_To cross the River Styx, a price must be paid…a price must __**always**__ be paid…_

**-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-**

**A/N: Hello-Hello readers, my fingers hurt. Back on track though, for those who aren't getting the mythology/title reference: the river that the bridge crosses over is supposed to represent the River Styx, and Bill's life was the toll that needed to be paid to cross. If you haven't read the New Author's Note at the top, I suggest you do if you're waiting for the other chapter.**

**The idea behind this story has been in my head since The Passing came out. Needless to say, I was a bit peeved at how the original survivors didn't seem very upset over Bill's demise, but I suppose it's to be expected at this point in Valve's lackluster updates (Woo for a menial 2-map update in L4D and a 3-map campaign that just slaps all the aspects of the first five maps together from L4D2. And now I hear they're adding No Mercy to L4D2… (searches how long the custom map version has been available).)**

**Enough ranting for now, though; like with ****Closing In****, I was disheartened by how few stories there were on FF regarding the death of the most badass senior citizen on the planet. As such, I felt it my duty to at least attempt my version of it before Valve released the canon format.**

**Stephen Bachman – An alias used by horror writer Stephen King.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


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